


Charlie's Day At the Beach

by miss_nettles_wife



Category: The Doctor Blake Mysteries
Genre: Amputation, Blood, Bonding, Eye Trauma, Father/Son, Gen, Suicidal Thoughts, Violence, attempted drowning, crippling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-19
Updated: 2015-07-31
Packaged: 2018-04-10 02:52:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,469
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4374389
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/miss_nettles_wife/pseuds/miss_nettles_wife
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A wave crashes over him. </p><p>He surfaces</p><p>A wave crashes over him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Sink Like A Stone

**Author's Note:**

> Hi my name is Mitzi and I like to sin. No real excuse for this one, I just wanted to chuck Charlie out into the ocean and watch him sink. Shrugs. But you didn't come here expecting something happy. Im a bad person, and I am okay with this.

 

A wave crashes over him. 

He surfaces

A wave crashes over him. 

It floods into his nose and mouth. 

He surfaces

A wave? Beaches were the only places with waves. There's no beaches in Ballarat, not as far as he knows. He must be miles away. Maybe he's already dead.  
The salt claws its way under his eyelids, stinging his eyes, he begins to cry but not because he is in pain, but because his body wants to flush the foreign water from it's vicinity. In fact, he can't feel anything at all. Well, he can't feel pain, per say, but he can feel the cold. It's so cold. Is it night? He's not quite sure because his eyelids will not peel back and allow light into his eyes. 

A wave crashes over him. 

It floods into his nose and mouth, it's salty, and full of grit. 

He surfaces. 

He must be at a beach. His hair has fanned out around his head, the curls soaked by the water, unable to retain their shape, have gone flat and float out around his head. The gel he used to keep it in place is long gone. He coughs some of the salty water back up, and some escapes the side of his mouth. He tastes copper. Must be internal damage. If the Doctor was coming, then he'd be able to fix it. 

A wave crashes over him. 

It floods into his nose and mouth. It's salty, and full of grit. He thinks he can hear someone calling for him. Someone far off. 

He surfaces. 

He tries to think back to the last time he saw the Doctor, and is distressed when he can. He remembers fighting with him. Telling him to please just let Munro be, please just let him be, that he can't always cover for him, and that he wants to help, he does, but he can't sacrifice his job as well. He needs to not only pay his own debts and bills, but his mother's as well. He's infuriated that the Doctor can't seem to take him seriously. He yells. He slams the door after him when he leaves. He wants to jog, clear his head. 

A wave crashes over him. 

It floods into his nose and mouth. It's salty, and full of grit. He thinks he can hear someone calling for him. Someone far off. He floats up, and drifts with the tide slightly out to the sea. 

He surfaces. 

He can remember Mattie chasing after him, telling to get back here and that he has to talk this though, not run away like he always does. Hindsight is in deed a bitch because he wants to tell his past self to listen to her, that she is right, go home, go back to the doctor. To make him listen. Because he is Charlie Davis. And he will not let anyone talk to him like that. But he doesn't. He keeps running. He pushes her away the same way he has always done. He has no friends. He doesn't need them, and he doesn't need her either. He is an idiot. He would have taken any help that they could have given him three days ago, two days ago, yesterday...

A wave crashes over him. 

It floods into his nose and mouth. It's salty, and full of grit. He thinks he can hear someone calling for him. Someone far off. He floats up, and drifts with the tide slightly out to the sea. He can swear that it is the doctor calling for him, far away. 

He surfaces. 

He reflects that if the doctor was coming for him, then he would have found him days ago, when he screamed for him, when he pleaded and begged and called for the Doctor to come and save him. He didn't come. Perhaps he is still angry. Perhaps he will never forgive Charlie. Some of his hair floats onto his face, the strands cover his nose and lips. Perhaps it's best that the doctor doesn't see him in this state anyhow. He supposes that there is no point to try and save him now, even if some how, the Doctor did come and save him. He has been dying for years. It's a relief to know it will end soon. 

A wave crashes over him.

It floods into his nose and mouth. It's salty, and full of grit. He thinks he can hear someone calling for him. Someone far off. He floats up, and drifts with the tide slightly out to the sea. He can swear that it is the doctor calling for him, far away. He tries to call back, but he cannot open his mouth, the sound of his heart beat pumps in his ears. 

He surfaces. 

He wants to scream at the sky for allowing this to happen to him, curse at the God he didn't know if he should believe in for punishing him like this, for what crime? He had done no wrong, surely? Who will look after his brothers, if he can't? Who will help his mother, if isn't coming home? Did she ask them to look for him? Did she call them, and ask them to find her child? He hopes that she did. The doctor will help her, he's helped so many people in Ballarat, what was one more family, he wonders. The stinging has gotten worse, filling all of his other wounds with the salt. 

A wave crashes over him. 

It floods into his nose and mouth. It's salty, and full of grit. He thinks he can hear someone calling for him. Someone far off. He floats up, and drifts with the tide slightly out to the sea. He can swear that it is the doctor calling for him, far away. He tries to call back, but he cannot open his mouth, the sound of his heart beat pumps in his ears. His arms float away from him and he has no control over them. One of them tries to anchor him into the sand, but it doesn't work. 

He surfaces. 

He remembers what they did to him, in their attempts to get to the doctor. He had a lot of enemies, the Doctor did. Box cutters, hammers, crow bars, cricket bats, nails and tacks, pins, chemicals he cannot name, the smell of burning skin, his skin, and he screams for the Doctor to save him. He never comes. He cries for him, all night. He never comes and he wonders why they chose him. Why not Mattie? He liked her more, would have saved her, no matter what the cost. 

A wave crashes over him. 

It floods into his nose and mouth. It's salty, and full of grit. He thinks he can hear someone calling for him. Someone far off. He floats up, and drifts with the tide slightly out to the sea. He can swear that it is the doctor calling for him, far away. He tries to call back, but he cannot open his mouth, the sound of his heart beat pumps in his ears. His arms float away from him and he has no control over them. One of them tries to anchor him into the sand, but it doesn't work. His lungs ache as the salt and the sand fill his mouth. He wants to be free. 

He surfaces. 

He comforts himself by knowing that at least without him, they will look more like a family. The way they had been, before he came here. Like he was never here. He tries to tell himself that he is happy for them, happy that his death will not hurt them too much. He believes that the Doctor will look after his mother. That his brothers will be fine without their overbearing older brother caring for them. It would be like he was never there at all. 

A wave crashes over him.

It floods into his nose and mouth. It's salty, and full of grit. He thinks he can hear someone calling for him. Someone far off. He floats up, and drifts with the tide slightly out to the sea. He can swear that it is the doctor calling for him, far away. He tries to call back, but he cannot open his mouth, the sound of his heart beat pumps in his ears. His arms float away from him and he has no control over them. One of them tries to anchor him into the sand, but it doesn't work. His lungs ache as the salt and the sand fill his mouth. He wants to be free. 

He wants to be free. 

…

His fathers old car was just that. Old. And slow. Which wasn't useful when he knew he was going against a clock. It was a bitterly cold night, slowly turning to a bitterly cold morning, and if Charlie was going to have any hope of living, then he would have to get to him very quickly. The fact was that they were too slow, and he had a fear right in the pit of his stomach that he wasn't going to be on time. 

Lawson navigates for him, telling him where to turn and where to go. The map that had arrived to them was of little help, but Lawson could make enough sense of it to find out where they had to go. They left Ballarat far behind them, with Charlie their destination. 

He has no idea what he should really expect, he'd been sent pictures, of the damage they'd inflicted on the Sergeant, but only a few, nothing that he could really use to find him. He's not even sure who did it, anyway. But it doesn't matter, they were just hired thugs, they could be anyone. No, what mattered was who paid them to hurt Charlie. And that was a question he had no answer too. But that didn't matter at the moment. He had the rest of his life to figure out who it was, but he only had maybe an hour before Charlie was lost to them forever. 

“Are we close?” He asks, as he turns a corner.  
“Yes.” Lawson said, “We should be pulling up there soon.” And that's the first words they've said since they started driving. Also the last they share before they arrive.  
The sand kicks up around his shoes, he's cold, he can hardly see, even if the sun was slowly starting to cast light on them. Lawson runs after him, his coat long abandoned on the sand as they reach the edge. The ocean laps at the sand, washing it away and giving it back. It would be so easy to get lost in it, he thinks, and he looks out to see, not even sure what he's looking for.  
…

The wood connects with his face, sending him sprawling onto the sand. Someone above him laughs, they sound like Munro more then anything else, but he's started to doubt his hearing capability. He doubts his sanity. He identifies the weapon. Cricket bat. He has long since lost any desire to fight back. He lost all sensation in his legs a while ago now. What life will there be for him without his legs? Never to run or bare his weight again. The sand is salty against his bare skin, stinging the open cuts that litter his chest. He cries out when they hit him on the back, he wants to scream at them 'You've already crippled me what more do you want?” But he doesn't because he screamed himself much past the point of talking days ago. The small part of him that still has feeling left tells him that the Doctor won't let him die.  
He doesn't believe it. 

One of them has a bottle of something, and he feels it stinging his skin, his face, his hands, it aches. He realizes perhaps a little to late that they are getting rid of the evidence. He watches the hands of one, and he finds his eyes drawn to a huge signet ring. He wishes that it wasn't the last thing he ever saw. 

…

Warm.  
That's the first thought he has, as he is plucked from the water. Who or whatever has deemed him worth saving is yelling something but he has no idea what. Yelling at someone? Had they lied to him, tricked him into thinking that it was over when it wasn't? Would they save him only to hurt him more? Why? Why bother? He cannot open his eyes enough to see, to know. He can hear a heart beat close to his head. His heart is beating much faster. He can hear that as well, pumping blood in his ears so hard that he thinks that the vessels may as well just pop. 

“Charlie?” It's close to him, he must really be on his way out now because it feels so real. So lifelike. He can't talk back so he just lets whoever is holding him to move him out of the ocean. 

…  
“Matthew! I've got him!” Blake shouts, and Lawson, who was a good fifty meters away from him starts moving back towards the sand. “Shine the light here!” Blake said, having abandoned his own torch in the water when he'd grabbed Charlie into his arms. Charlie was largely unresponsive to his voice, and for a second he thought he might be too late. He lay the other gently on the sand and took a good look at him. His face paled.  
“He needs a hospital.” Lawson states.  
“He does.” Blake agreed, picking Charlie up again.  
…  
The medical center in the little beach town where Charlie had been dropped was lacking at best. Blake did what he could, but it was decided that Charlie needed a better hospital. Once he seemed stable enough, he was moved back to Ballarat. It was good to have him somewhere closer to home, Blake decides as he oversees the ambulance boys place Charlie on the bed.  
“He's messed up.” One comments, as he turns to look at Charlie's swollen face and ruined legs.  
“He is.” Blake agrees, sitting next to the poor boy and taking his heads. “He is indeed.”  
…

“What have they done to him?” Munro asks, looking even slightly put off by Charlie's appearance. The doctor gives a small and bitter chuckle.  
“A better question, William, may be what didn't they do to him?” He murmurs, as Charlie remains still and unresponsive. Munro sighs and leans on the door frame.  
“Talk.”  
“Most prominent injury...Would be his spine, or, his legs. They damaged it enough for him to lose all feeling in his legs.”  
“How do you know this?”  
“It's more like wishful thinking. If he did have feeling in his legs then I can't imagine how he would have felt.”  
“Cut to the chase, doctor.”  
“They took one of his feet off.”  
“Dear lord.”  
“And rather crudely as well. It's probably just from dumb luck that that alone didn't kill him.”  
“Other injuries?” Blake held up one of Charlie's hands.  
“You can see for yourself. Look here, broken fingers.”  
“That's...”  
“Not even the worst of it.” The Doctor deadpanned.  
“What can be worse then all of this?” Munro asked, looking Charlie over with sad eyes.  
“His eye.” Blake said, pointing to the eye that had a gauze pad secured over it. “His bottom eyelid has been burnt onto his eye. There was nothing I could do.”  
“His has one eye.”  
“With debatable sight.” Munro actually looks slightly green in the face.  
“That's awful.”  
“Yes it is.” Blake agrees, as Munro turns halfway to leave. “I suppose you come out on top, in all of this.”  
“What?”  
“Come out on top. I'll need to resign from the station.”  
“Why?”  
“He's going to need a carer.” Munro blinks.  
“What?”  
“What state do you think he's going to be in, when he wakes up?” Blake asks, taking Charlie's hand tightly into his own.  
“I hadn't considered it.”  
“No. You hadn't.” Blake said, and Munro waits for him to say something else, but he doesn't. So he turns, and he leaves.  
…

Lawson has been a constant presence these few days. Charlie's mother had been unable to come and see her son (and if he was honest, Lawson's not sure he would want her to. He wouldn't want to see his child like that.) so Blake had filled in for her, and he stood guard outside the room, making sure that everyone who went in was okay. (Hence why Munro had to stand by the door. Munro might have been his 'boss' but he didn't trust him as far as he could throw him, and he had a bad feeling about what might happen if Charlie woke up and found Munro leering over him. Enough for anyone to need hospitalization) He couldn't stand guard all the time, however. That would be unwise, so he would swap with Ned every so often. Mostly because if there was someone else at the station he trusted, it was probably Ned. Hobart was untrustworthy just on the premise that he was Hobart, Barbara gave him the creeps, Simmons was incompetent on a good day, Parks was still in Melbourne, so Ned it was. Ned, for what it was worth, seemed happy to help out. After swapping, he stepped into the room to see how he was. 

Blake gave him a tired look, and gave a meaningful glance at the chair next to him. Lawson nodded, and took a seat. “Any changes?” Blake shakes his head no. Lawson sighs. Blake offers him Charlie's hand but Lawson shakes his head no.  
“Any leads?”  
“Not that I know of.” Lawson replied, sitting back in the chair. “Munro's been hanging around all day.”  
“Has he?”  
“I just keep telling him that you say no visitors.”  
“Good work.” He said. Since the previous day, Blake had decided that Munro was not going to be allowed back in.  
“His mother calls every few hours to ask how he is.”  
“What do you say?”  
“No change.”  
“It's the truth.”  
“Do you think he'll recover from this?”  
“I've seen men recover from worse.”  
“He's hardly a man. He's a boy, at best.”  
“He's almost thirty.”  
“He's twenty six. That's hardly almost thirty. Is he going to get better?”  
“Better, yes. Full recovery?” Blake pauses, before shaking his head no. “I don't think so.” Lawson nods, and stands again.  
“I'm going home. I need a shower, and a sleep. You do the same.” he offers, turning, and heading back outside. Blake considers it for a moment, but after a moment, decides to stay just a little while longer.  
…

Charlie feels like he's still floating. He's lighter then air, he drifts away, far away from Ballarat, goodbye, Doctor Blake and your gentle hands, Mattie O'Brian and your sharp wit, Jean Beazley and your kind eyes, Matthew Lawson and your heavy foot steps, William Munro and your cool demeanor, Bill Hobart and your fighting, good bye Australia, with your unbearable summers and bitter winters, good bye world, and your cruel intentions.

Good bye.


	2. Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He realizes all too late he has lived.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for suicidal/self destructive thoughts.

He realizes all too late that he has lived. The room is blessedly dark when grey eyes crack slightly to face the curtains have been pulled and he supposes that it is a relief. Maybe. At least he can open his eyes now. Eye. It also occurs to him that his other eye is shut. He turns his face away from the window towards the rooms only other occupant. 

Blake. 

He should have known that the doctor would never have let him find peace. Blake looks to be sleeping, and Charlie doesn't want to wake him at first, but his fingers are not cooperating with his mind. He wants to pull back the sheets and look at what they did to his legs, but he can't. He tells himself that Mattie will probably be rostered on soon anyway. 

…

The next time he is awake, there is someone touching his chest. Logic dictates that it must be a nurse. He wishes he can remember what Mattie smells like because then it may be worth opening his eyes. He'd never been close to Mattie, but he wants to tell her that he's sorry he called her names and that he didn't mean anything his said. The hands stop, and the bandage is fixed. They move away, and Charlie figures that he will probably have a better time to talk to her. He allows himself to go back to sleep. 

…

The next time he is awake he can't hide it. The doctor has his warm hands on his face, carefully fixing up the bandage on his face. One eye cracks slightly, his breathing changes. After a moment, Blake gives him a pitiful look that tries it's best to spark some kind of emotion within him. It doesn't. His apathy infected wounds have spread and he is unable to care either way what happens to him now. “Would you like something to drink?” He can feel invisible sand in his mouth, clinging to his teeth and coating his tongue in salt. He nods, slowly. The motion is painful. He wants to cry, a little because nodding shouldn't hurt that much. 

…

“You seem distant.” Blake said, pressing his hands against Charlie's as the second man continued to look out the window at the world below.   
“You don't have to.”  
“Do what?”  
“Save me.”  
“I did.”  
“You are.”  
“Because you're my friend.” Charlie doesn't elaborate, and Blake doesn't want to distress him so they go back to the quiet. When Charlie falls back asleep, he moves the bed closer to the window. Mattie looks at him like he's crazy, but he hopes Charlie appreciates it. 

…

 

The Doctor wanted Charlie to stay in Ballarat. Yes, partially because he was responsible for the damage inflicted on the boy, but more because he didn't want Charlie to go back to Melbourne and to a doctor that he didn't trust. As far as he knew, Charlie trusted him. His mother, on the other hand is a different story. Blake has no doubts that she wanted what's best for her child, but as it turned out, she didn't know him much better then anyone else did. Since coming to Ballarat, Charlie had been just as distant to her as he had with everyone else. (At first, at least) 

So Blake was left trying to convince the woman that her son would be better off stying here with him. It's not as easy as it may have sounded. And eventually, he loses the battle, with her playing the 'im his mother' card. As much as he likes to think he's a father figure in Charlie's life, he knows fully well that he isn't Charlie's father. (Sometimes he got the impression that he may have been the first one he's had in quite some time.) So it's settled. When Charlie is well enough, then he will go to Melbourne into a retirement home that his mother picked out. It seems wrong to him, to put a twenty eight year old man into a retirement home. But she was his mother, so what she said went.   
...

Charlie seems a little more like himself this week. A lot of the more minor wounds have healed up nicely. Even what's left of his foot looks to be healing quite well. "How do you feel?" Blake asked, as he fluffed Charlie's pillows. There's a pause while Charlie thinks.   
"Like crap." He grumbled, pulling the blanket up higher. Blake has noticed that it was like he was trying to protect himself. From what, he isn't sure. He's been too busy caring for Charlie to really look into investigating the case.   
"Well I'm afraid I have some news that will only make you feel worse."  
"Oh?"  
"You're aware that you're not going to be able to stay in hospital forever?"  
"Of course, Doc. Aren't I going back to your place so you can continue to fuss as if you haven't seen me for a hundred years every time you come in?"  
"That was the original plan." He agrees, not making a comment about Charlie describing him in such a way. "But it's not anymore."  
"What? Why not?" Charlie asked, to tired to really be forceful about it.   
"Your mother wants you to go to a retirement home in Melbourne." and after that, Charlie looks totally heart broken   
"Are you sure?" Blake nods. "She won't change. But maybe you can change your mind. What do you think? Do you fancy getting out of bed?" It's been so long since Charlie last left this room that of course he said yes. He was so tired. So done. So ready to go.   
...

The phone call was short, because Charlie was so easily tired that it took every bit of energy he had from him. His mother insisted that she knew best, and that she only wanted what was best for her son. Charlie doesn't doubt that she has his best interests at heart, but he doesn't want to go to Melbourne. He doesn't want to stay here either. He wants to walk back to the ocean and fill his pockets with stones, but that doesn't seem like a smart thing to say out loud so he keeps it to himself. 

He sleeps poorly after that. Blake starts to more or less move in with him, if he was allowed, Charlie thinks he would probably even sleep here as well. On a few occasions, he has. He puts his head on the side of the bed and sleeps leaning over. Charlie pretends he doesn't know, because it feels easier to pretend that Blake only cares because he feel guilty. Not because they were friends. He distinctly tries to forget that. He is a terrible person, he thinks, as he shifts so he can face the doctor's tired face. He cant help but think that if he'd died then those creases would be smooth, and he would be out doing what he did best. 

…  
“Doc?”   
“Yes Charlie?” Blake asked, as the two of them sat together in the hospital room.   
“I don't want to go to Melbourne.”  
“I know.” He said, gently taking Charlie's hand again.   
“I'm not a child. I want to be in control of my own life.”  
“I know.” Blake said, softly.   
“So I'm not going.”  
“What?”  
“I'm not going. I'm staying here.”  
“Your mother won't like that very much.” Charlie shrugged slightly and pulled the doctor's hand closer so he could inspect it.   
“I don't care.” He replied. He cared very much about what his mother thought of him but there was no way he was going back to Melbourne. He had to stay here. “I need to be here.” He said, softly. “And it's not really a matter of opinion, Doc.” He said, quietly. Blake studied his profile for a long, long moment. After several seconds, he nods.   
“I'll make sure she knows.” Blake assured him, and Charlie gave him a sigh of relief.   
“I'm tired.” He said, after a moment. Blake nodded, and squeezed his hand.   
“Go to sleep.”  
“Will you go home?”  
“Why?”  
“Because you also need to sleep.” he murmured. Blake sighed softly as Charlie released his hand and pulled his own close to him.   
“I'd rather make sure you're okay.”  
“I know. But you also need a shower. And to eat. And to change your clothes.” Blake sighs softly, and relents.   
“Alright.” He said, letting Charlie have his hand back. “No you rest up, alright?” Charlie pretends he's already sleeping.   
…

Charlie's mother protested, of course. She wanted her son where she thought was best for him, but the Doctor managed to get her to understand by telling her that now, more then any other time in his life, Charlie needed to be in control of his circumstances. 

…

Before this week, Charlie can count on one hand the amount of times he's been in the studio. Now he spends all of his time in there. Obviously, he can't get up the stairs anymore, and Blake didn't want to carry him up there every day, so everyone (Everyone except him) decided it would be good for him to stay down here where Blake could 'keep an eye on him' Well that was the theory behind it, anyway. He suspects that it may be because he's dreaming, and in a few hours he'll wake up at the bottom of the ocean, but that was probably more wishful thinking than anything else. 

He gets tired very easily, he thinks, as the Doctor leans over him, carefully changing the bandage on his eye. All he'd done today had been lie in bed and listen to the Doctor play the piano in the other room, but it felt as if he'd run a marathon. “What will happen to my eye?” He asked, as Blake carefully taped a new gauze pad over it.   
“Well, when you're well enough, we can consider removing it and getting a prosthetic, or leaving it how it is.” Blake told him. Charlie lets him continue, and then finish before nodding.   
“Why didn't you take it out already?”  
“I didn't want to put your body under any more stress. It was a miracle you were alive and I wanted to play it safe.”  
“Oh.” Charlie said, as the Doctor pulled back the sheets to take a look at what remained of his foot. Despite the Doctor's best efforts, Charlie's leg came to a stop mid way though his lower leg. “I suppose I can't be a police man anymore.” It's the first time Charlie's brought police work up since he came home, and Blake had hoped he'd be a bit more healed before he did so.   
“There are other jobs you can do.”  
“Like type up Lawson's reports?” He scoffed.   
“Maybe.” Blake offers, replacing the blanket and smoothing it down over Charlie's numb legs. Charlie watches and wishes very badly that he could feel it. Blake seemed to see this in his eyes or something, because he carefully took Charlie's hand and gave him a raised eyebrow that tried to convey the message of 'please don't shut me out.'   
“You should have left me in the ocean.” Charlie murmured, as Blake began to rub the back of his hand comfortingly.   
“Why on earth would I have done that?”  
“I would have died a police officer.”  
“You're much more then that, Charlie.” Blake reminds, Charlie looks at his legs and then back to Blake.   
“Sometimes, when I shut my eyes, I feel like I'm still out there, drifting in a vast expanse of blue and grey.”  
“Do you enjoy that?” He doesn't know, so he doesn't reply.   
“I'm tired, Doctor.” He said, softly, before turning away and shutting his eyes. Blake's small glimpse into Charlie's real feelings is over. Like most things Charlie was involved in, if Blake wanted more information, he realized that he would have to do it on Charlie's terms.   
…

“I worry about him.” Blake said, softly. Jean took a sip of her tea.   
“We all do.' She assured him.   
“He told me yesterday that he wishes I'd left him in the ocean.” He said, softly. “Do you think he was right?”   
“Of course not.” She replied, after a moment.   
“What if he's never happy again?” Blake asks, rubbing his face.   
“I've never known you to doubt yourself, Dr Blake.”   
“Neither have I.” He said, and rubbed his face. “Perhaps I need some sleep.” Jean takes another sip of tea.   
“Perhaps.” She agreed, after a minute.   
…  
The water is crushing him, collapsing his chest cavity with it's weight, holding him down in the sand. He watches the sunlight stream in though it at him, warming his face in the deep water. He knows that logically he should be horrified. He knows he should be afraid. But he's not. He wants to be here. He'll drown if he doesn't breathe...And oddly enough, he's alright with that.   
…

It takes Blake a long time to give Charlie back the freedom to move around the house. And even that small freedom was based on if he was there or not. Charlie didn't mind as much as he thought he would, since Blake never left him alone while he was awake. He never thought he could be bored in the studio, but he very much was. He's read every book that the doctor would give him, listened to every song and must have seen every weather phenomenon though the window. Being allowed to move was a blessing.   
He never thought it was possible to feel so much joy about sitting on the couch.   
…

“How are you feeling?” Lawson asked, taking a sip of tea. (According to the Doctor, Charlie's not allowed tea. Or coffee. Or Coke. Or pretty much anything he actually enjoyed drinking because of the caffeine.)   
“Honestly, Boss? I'm really bored.” He admitted, fiddling with his shirt. Since he was well enough to move out of bed, the doctor had also cleared him for visitors, and apparently there was a waiting list. (Even Simmons wanted to see if he was okay.)   
“Well no one said the healing process was fun.” Charlie scoffed and picked up the book he'd been reading.   
“I'm only able to stay awake for a couple of hours at a time.” He complained, “And despite the obscne amount of books in this house, all of them are textbooks.” He said, “But on the bright side, I can tell you anything you want to know about external fixation.”  
“What's that?”  
“When you break a bone, and then the doctor screws metal poles into it to hold them in place. Said metal poles poke out of the skin and are attached to another metal thing to keep them still. Lawson rolled his eyes.   
“I'll pass.” He said, as Charlie put the book back down.   
“Your loss.” He replied. “How is the station? Anything interesting happen?”  
“Serial break ins.” He offered,   
“Sounds interesting.” Charlie probed.   
“It is, he leaves no fingerprints, comes in though a window and all of that, but more importantly, he's dangerous.” Lawson would have to be a fool to miss the sparkling in Charlie's eyes.   
“What did he do?” He asked, leaning forward in his seat.   
“If a victim sees him, then he has no problem killing them.” Charlie looked excited at the prospect of murder until Lawson raised an eye brow and reminded him “People died, Davis!”   
“And that's terrible but solving a serial murderer slash burglur sounds interesting!”  
“He's not a serial murderer yet. And we're going to catch him before he becomes one.”Charlie smiled and settled back in his chair.   
“I'm sure you will.” He said, with a nod. “Tell me, has Munro been treating you alright?”  
“Now the doctor's gone he probably couldn't care less.”  
“Oh.”  
“It's interesting.” Lawson agreed. “Now you tell me. Is the doctor treating you okay?”  
“He's very…”  
“Devoted?”  
“I was going to say protective but that works as well.”  
“He just wants what's best for you. And lets face it. You don't exactly have a stellar record in self care.” Charlie rolled his eyes slightly and sighed at Lawson.   
“Sure, Boss.” He offered, and took another sip of water.   
…  
After Lawson left, it seemed like Charlie had deflated like a balloon with a hole in it. His face was dull, his eyes were tired and his hands clasped in his lap while he waited for the doctor to return from showing Lawson out. “Are you alright?” Blake asked softly. Charlie scoffed slightly as the Doctor lifted him up from the lounge. “Lawson says he's concerned about you.”  
“Why?” He asks idly, as they walk towards the study again.   
“Because he doesn't believe you.”  
“I thought that was how I was supposed to act.” He murmured, as Blake put him down again.   
“Supposed to act?” Blake prompted.   
“You know…Annoyed at being cared for, wanting to go back to work, bored, isn't that how young police men are meant to act?”  
“We want you to act like yourself.” Blake said, as he pulls the blankets over Charlie's waist, but left his chest uncovered.   
“Well you wouldn't like that much.” Charlie whispered, as Blake fluffed the pillow under him gently.   
“What do you mean?” He sighed softly and shut his eyes. “Charlie, you don't have to shut me out.” Blake said, gently.   
“I'm not trying to shut you out. I'm trying to keep you.”   
“Keep me?”  
“I don't...I don't feel like anything.” He whispered. “I feel like maybe I want to be dead.” He admits. “Maybe I wanted to die.” He said. “I just didn't want to hurt your feelings...You're a doctor...You help people...I didn't...I didn't want to make you feel like you'd wasted your time on me...Not after I found out you resigned.”  
“Oh Charlie.” Blake breathed softly, and pulled Charlie into a hug. Charlie hugged him back, and Blake didn't let him go until Charlie had fallen asleep.   
…  
After that, Charlie did his best to keep up his exterior to Lawson, Mattie and Mrs Beazley that he was excited to be healing, and bored at home. When it was just him and Blake, he was allowed to deflate and just 'be' and it was a god send. It was in one such moment, when Blake decided he wanted to talk about it again.   
“Charlie.” He said, softly. Charlie looked down at his hands.   
“I don't want to talk about it.”  
“I do.” Blake said, softly. 'I want to know what's happening.”  
“Nothing.” He said, softly. Blake, after a moment, wrapped him in a hug. Charlie blinked, and after several long moments, he hugged back. They don't talk about it that night, but Charlie knows that it can't be far away. 

…

It takes another week before the doctor decides that he can use the wheelchair to move himself around. It's a hard task. The house is not made for a wheelchair, so it turns out that he still needs help getting around but it's so much better to have control of himself he almost cries. 

Almost is the key word, he decides. 

…

There is always an elephant in room. He learned that very young. The elephant here (at least initally) had been how was he going to bathe? 

Charlie thinks that maybe the overwhelming apathy he felt was a good thing because otherwise he may have been embarrassed. He rationalizes that Blake had probably seen much worse. What annoys him more then having to have someone carry him around as if he were a child, is that Blake insists on supervising him, least he hurt himself or something equally as stupid, he thinks. 

Charlie shifts marginally from where he was sitting on the toilet to watch Blake even fuss over the water. Honestly, the man could fuss over anything, Charlie thinks, as he hooks his arms around Blake's neck. “I am a grown man.” He reminds Blake, as the man passes him a wash cloth, and then takes his spot on the toilet seat.   
“I know, I know.” Blake replies, as Charlie turned his attention to the task at hand. “How are you feeling?' Blake asked, as Charlie carefully examined the end of his leg, before carefully washing it.   
“Fine.” Charlie comments, as he sets his leg back down in the water.   
“Are you sure?”  
“I am.” He said, turning his attention to his upper body. He's a little sad to note how much of his muscle mass has slipped away in the time he was in hospital. Blake nods, and stays quiet for a few minutes.   
“Charlie, I'm worried about you.” He said, softly.   
“You're always worried about me.” Charlie counters, grabbing the shampoo with one hand.   
“I know...I just worry that you don't see in yourself what I see in you.”   
“All I ever wanted to be was a police man.” He said, after a long moment. “I spent my whole life working up to that...I had goals, you know.” He whispered. “Now what?” He asked. “What am I going to do now?” He asked, softly. “I cant stay here with you forever. What am I going to do?” He asked, softly.   
“Who says you cant stay here forever?”  
“You'd get tired of having to look after me. I'd get tired of being a burden. You have things more important then me to deal with.”  
“Nothing, at this moment in time is more important to me then you.” Charlie gives him a weak smile, and leans backwards into the water to wash his hair out. “Yeah.” He said, “At this moment.” He repeated. He lay back in the water until it covered him entirely effectively ending the conversation. 

…  
“Do you want to die?” Blake demanded, one afternoon after he'd seen all of his patients for the day. Charlie hardly looked up from his book in acknowledgment.  
“What are you on about?” He asked.   
“You. Do. You. Want. To. Die.” He said, pausing at each word so Charlie got the full effect.   
“No. Of course not.” He said, finally putting his book down. “All the effort you put into saving me would be a waste.” Blake sat down next to him. Charlie put his bookmark in place and shut his book. He could feel the lecture.   
“You don't have to shut me out.” Blake said, “I'm your friend. I want to help you.”  
“I don't need any help.” Charlie said, calmly. “Well, mentally, I mean.”  
“Everyone is worried about you.”  
“They're wasting their breath.” He said, running his fingers along the unadorned cover of the text book he was reading.   
“Why do you say that?”  
“I'm not worth the worry.”  
“I think you are.”   
“I think your wrong.” Charlie countered. Blake put his face in his hands and sighed deeply. Charlie at least had the dignity to appear guilty.   
“Why can't you just be honest with me?” Blake pleaded.   
“Because...You won't like honest me.'  
“How do you know if you don't try?”  
“Because I don't even like honest me. Don't you like it better this way? Isn't it so much neater this way, if I just play the part?” He asked, sounding slightly desperate. “Isn't it prettier like this? Looks so much better on paper?” He continued, his resolve slowly crumbling as his fingers took the book he was holding hostage. “Can't we just...Keep it like this?” Blake leant over to take both of Charlie's hands into his own.   
“No, we cant.” Charlie looked at him with huge eyes.   
“Can't we?” Blake shakes his head no. Charlie breaks his hands away to wipe at his good eye. Blake moves to hug him, but Charlie pushes him away. “No, no, please don't.” He whispered.   
“Talk to me, Charlie.”   
“They…They cut my foot off.” He whispered. “And I screamed for you.” He said, quietly. “I cried and I begged you to come and save me, and you didn't come.” He murmured, looking at his hands. “ They hit me..In the head, with that bat, and I thought I was going to die and I prayed to God that you would come and save me. You didn't. I was ready to die, in that ocean. I was prepared to accept death.” Blake was about to speak but Charlie silenced him. “I was at peace. It was all going to end.” He said, tearfully, “And then….And then, just when I thought it was over, you saved me. But for what?” He asked, quietly. “I have no future as a police man, no ability to chose something else, only one eye, one foot, and when I try and sleep, I can feel the ocean.” He murmured. “I wish I was still there.” He murmured, looking down at his book. Blake watched him for another moment.   
“Why didn't you tell me?”  
“You went to so much trouble to fix me...It didn't seem right.” He said, quietly. “I'm sorry.” After several moments, Blake pulled him into another hug. This time, Charlie accepts. (Even if he doesn't hug back) 

…  
“Is something wrong, Boss?” Charlie asked, sitting back on the sofa. Lawson sighed and took another sip of tea.   
“Matthew, Davis, Please.” Charlie scoffs, and smooths out the blanket over his legs.   
“I will when you will.” He challenged. “Now spill. What's up?” He asked, with a raised eyebrow.   
“Just...Munro.” Charlie made a little hand sign that mimicked a roll, implying he should continue. Lawson sighed again. “He wants to come visit you.”   
“Why would he want to do that?” Charlie asked, looking slightly more on edge.   
“I have no idea.” He replied, “I just keep telling him that the doctor says you're not allowed visitors.   
“Thank you.” He offered.   
“Oh, here. These are for you.” Lawson said, opening his work bag, and then passing Charlie a dairy box.   
“I assume you ate all the good ones?”  
“Obviously.” Lawson said, with a little smile. Charlie looked inside and smiled to him, after a moment.   
“Thank you.” He said, before setting them on the couch by his hand. “Thank you for the flowers as well. They died.” Lawson chuckles slightly. Leave it to Charlie to ruin even a thank you.   
“You're welcome. For the tenth time.” He said, sitting back.   
“Sorry….It's the memory.” He replied.   
“I know.” Lawson assured him, and took another sip of tea, “Do you want to hear about the new cases?”  
…

“What am I going to do with this?” Charlie asked, as Blake set the pad of paper down in his lap.   
“Draw.”  
“Draw? I'm a police man, not an artist.” Charlie scoffed, attempting to pass it back.   
“Personally, I've always found it relaxing.” Blake said. “Just...Humor me?” he asked. Charlie sighed, and opened it to the first page.   
“Fine.” He grumbled. He did occasionally draw in his notepad, but he'd never had useful pencils and paper dedicated to the job. Besides. He'd only ever really drawn profiles. After leaving him with the pad of paper, Blake went to sit at the piano. Charlie turned his upper body to watch him for a few moments, before deciding what he wanted to draw. 

Blake played the piano for about fifteen minutes, before his curiosity got the better of him. “What did you draw?” He asked, looking over Charlie's shoulder. Charlie's reply was to shut his book and look over his shoulder. “It's not done.” He said.   
“Can't I see?” Charlie shook his head.   
“I'll show you when it's done.” He smiled, there was a knock at the door, signaling a patient. Blake sighed at him, and then left the room.

…  
Blake sighed softly, and took another sip of tea. Jean sighed back at him. “You're thinking about Munro.”  
“I am.”  
“Why?”  
“Because I don't know if I should let him in to see Charlie.”   
“Why don't you ask Charlie?”  
“I have, and he says he doesn't care.”  
“So why are you still worried?”   
“Because I don't trust him. And I have a bad feeling about this.”   
“A bad feeling?” Blake nods, but sighs. “But then again, I suppose it doesn't really matter what I want.” Jean shrugs, and Blake just sighs into his tea cup. 

…

As he always seemed too, Munro picked his own time to come for a visit. Blake notes the uniform with a raised eyebrow. Especially when he'd first come home, Blake had spent a great deal of time keeping Charlie away from police things. He even (and quite stupidly, in Charlie's opinion) moved the painting of Agnes Clasby out of the studio so he couldn't look at it. Now he was starting to relax a little, and Charlie felt a lot more comfortable here then he used to. 

Blake sighed softly as he showed Munro into the living room. “Please be careful.” He said, finally. “He's still quite unwell.” Blake said. Munro nods as Blake leads him in. 

“Davis.” Munro greets as he enters. Charlie looks up.   
“Munro. You'll forgive me If I don't stand.” Munro can't help but roll his eyes.   
“That's almost funny.” He comments, taking a seat. Charlie sighs softly as Munro takes his seat. It takes about two minutes for the gears in his head to click into place. He lets out a shout suddenly.   
“Charlie?” Blake asks, looking down to find the sergeant panicked and the pale white of his face going whiter.   
“Get him away from me!” Charlie shouts, very suddenly, his hands scrambling at Blake's coat trying to pull himself away. Munro frowns suddenly. Charlie's shouts have turned virtually incomprehensible.   
“You should leave.” Jean states from the door, as the doctor attempts to calm Charlie down. Munro doesn't need to be told twice.   
…  
“I feel like a train crash looks.” Charlie said softly, waking up almost four hours later. He's embarrassed to discover that the only way to calm him down had been by sedation.   
“I hate to break it to you but you look like a train crash.” Blake remarks, as Charlie shifts slightly in bed. “What happened?”  
“I don't...I don't know. One minute I was fine, and the next it felt...”  
“Like you were back there? “  
“Yeah.”  
“What happened?”  
“Something I saw about his hands. His ring...One of them. The big one, he had a ring just like it.”  
“So he was a mason?”  
“I don't know.” He said, softly. “If he wanted me dead, why not just finish the job?”  
“I don't know.” Blake repeated. “But I do think our good friend Matthew should be talking with William Munro.”

…

“Do you still wish you were dead?” Blake asks, one afternoon. They're both sitting on the patio, gazing out at the stars. Charlie gives a sort of half shrug.   
“Not now, no. In this moment in time, I am quite happy to be alive.”  
“Really?” Charlie looks at Blake for a moment, before looking back out.   
“I don't know.” He said. “I think so.” Blake nods,  
“Time is a good healer, Charlie. and then after a moment, Charlie sets a piece of paper on the table.

“That's for you.”   
“Me?” He nods. Blake opens the four times folded paper to reveal a portrait of himself, lying in what he assumed to be the ocean, holding his doctors bag over his legs. He looks oddly peaceful. “It's very nice.” He said, after a moment of looking at the amateurish drawing.   
“It's awful, but thank you.” He smiled. Blake nods, and looks back out at the stars. Blake looks at him from the side, and then back down to the drawing.   
“I think it's lovely.” Charlie sighed softly, and then put his head on the doctor's shoulder.   
“Yeah. You would.' He said, giving no elaboration on what he meant.


End file.
